The mouth mask of tattered black handkerchiefs helps with feeling brave. Anonymity in the absence of liquor. Ragged sleeves fail to tell the tale of the travels behind the eyes. And yet. Dabbling with worldliness is insufficient provisioning. Imposter's Syndrome bludgeons gently in the longest hours of the day. And so, it must eventually escapism into Real World. Actualizing outside of Baudrillard's construct, one bruise at a time. Just the scrape of rough fabric, and the heavy strap of a travelling backpack. Avoiding the million watchful eyes of hexagons, and 1984.
8:16 p.m. - 2019-05-04
Recent entries:
Unruinable - 2019-05-22
Putrescent Promises - 2019-05-13
Too Esoteric - 2019-05-13
Puzzle Metaphor - 2019-05-08
CoMeIn - 2019-05-08
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